


The Moon Has Married

by roseluu (rowanscrown)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Old Prussia, Paganism, Religion, Soviet Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 07:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13185306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanscrown/pseuds/roseluu
Summary: This is the part that resides within him, no matter how hard he’s tried to rid himself of it.Or, Prussia's religious confliction is never-ending.





	The Moon Has Married

East. _East_. The word leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

He can’t quite place it, either. There must have been something. There _was_ something, but it’s blurred, and matted, and swarms over his eyes like thick mud. Something is amiss. Something hurts.

Whenever he sits, silently, concentrating on the feeling – sharp stinging, wrenching right, then left, back and forth – he thinks: Lithuania. Yes. Lithuania. And, the small boy who hides behind Lithuania’s knees.

He remembers, somewhat.

Toris had been a sight back then. Exhilarating. Wild. Wild everything; from the roots and flowers tangled in his hair to his raw ankles, to his braided hair and superstitions. He was alive. His tongue always flurried through wishes to his deities, offerings and appraisals, prayers on his lips like ink ingrained over his skin.

Toris’ language. Whenever Gilbert hears it, it wiggles to the forefront of his mind: Close. Had he been?

A part of him says so.

This is the part that resides within him, no matter how hard he’s tried to rid himself of it. And, oh, try he did. These memories, however, flush back fluently. These memories come to him like an old lover. Embracing, promising. There to raise him from bed when the sheets weigh years down on his shoulders. These memories:

Leave. Leave this part of him. Destroy it.

They do. The ‘Order had dug deep.

But, this part of himself is strong, stubborn. Silently, of course, Toris worships this part. The part they, and many others, rest close to their hearts. _Too_ close, Gilbert thinks. So close, in fact, he feels as if Pērkons beats crackling thunder against his ribcage, his beard dragging over his lungs until the crackling electricity becomes unbearable.

 _It is sacred_ , something whispers to him. Don’t you remember? Sneaking away to visit, to offer, to love, to hope, to –

These memories are like an ill-preserved photograph, singed around the edges, charred over his eyes.

Had he been too young?

That may be why the way he is. But now, do not show, do not spread, do not acknowledge. These Gods resting in the East are not a part of him – God is. Toris had to have known. That’s why he told him. That's why the Knights in the East...

 _East_. Why does it hurt?

The tribes. What tribes? He hadn’t seen them. Where had they gone? Raivis had spoken to him quietly in the hallways, in the words, the language, he’d sworn to his people, to God, he’d tear away: “The moon made love to the morning star.”

Toris looks at him as if there is something he wishes to pity. Gilbert doesn’t blame him. He'd drowned his pwn people with verses of God, whom they’d never heard of. But, God had banished the desire in Gilbert, hadn’t he? The desire to delve into the trees, ask for guidance during drought, speak to Potrimpo, as if he was an old friend, a savior, over the sea – all seas – and granting power, fulfillment.

“Demons, I say. The Trinity of Hell, I say. They will be gone, soon enough. Maybe they will flee to the savages in the North.”

The Knights were not kind, and neither was he.

He is East, again. He is not his brother, and never has been.

Toris, through blood, chokes through his language. Begs for forgiveness to a God he is not sure he believes in. Soon, it becomes too much: sacred names spill, ooze through his lips. Gilbert is not allowed to touch him. He is not supposed to be witnessing this. But, he can’t look away. Raivis clutches his waist and begs him to leave, and Ivan says to, as well.

The twisting begins. The muscles over his heart burn, white-hot, and the memories flutter in broken photographs stained as red as the blood matting Toris’ hair. The whispers come fast, high-pitched, and panicked: _Do not think. He is hurt. Do not think. He is hurt. Do not think_ –

“May He tear your soul to shreds,” he spits.

Lithuania holds half his heart, perhaps forever. Ivan can hardly grapple for it.

**Author's Note:**

> the Prussian Crusade began in the early 1200′s, and the Teutonic Knights’ main goal was to convert pagan Prussian’s (among others) to Christianity. Baltic mythology intermingled a lot with Old Prussian mythology, because they were originally Baltic tribes.


End file.
